


Blue

by Leshy



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Connor Deserves Happiness, Gen, Identity, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), introspective, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-28 00:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leshy/pseuds/Leshy
Summary: the color of our planet from far far awaybluethe most human color((yes inspired by the song sue me i'm emotional))Connor has known blue for as long as he has existed, he just didn't know blue could be…so much more--------BLUElike their LEDsflickeringlike their bloodrushinglike their eyeshopefullike the skyvastlylike the seadeeplybluelike lifeinfinitely





	Blue

**Author's Note:**

> i've been silent for a while now and if you're here for bmc i'm very sorry and if you're here for GLITCH i hope you can forgive me
> 
> i have no idea what this is or where it's going i just know it's very very very self indulgent and it will probably get angsty but i'll try to update the tags as i post
> 
> in any case this is my frist dbh human fic (that i'm posting)
> 
> hope you enjoy
> 
> as per usual i have no beta, so this is my own dumpsterfire of emotional venting  
> come join me, it's quite warm

Connor was activated on the 15th of August, 2038. Just a few hours before Daniel would shoot his owner, and threaten the life of the little girl, Emma. Like everything that has happened in Connors short life, he remembers it down to the smallest detail. He remembers opening his eyes, answering the questions asked of him, performing the simple instructions given to him. He remembers how everything had been in place from the start. Down to the smallest detail.

He remembers how his own LED had flickered, frantically, like a hummingbirds heartbeat. From the very start. 

Like it does now.

Since deviating he has spent more time than necessary looking at his reflection. Before, it had only been glances, programmed into him to both seem more human, and to make sure he could keep up his professional appearance. Adjust his tie, straighten his jacket, fix his hair. Those small gestures that Cyberlife had added, so he could integrate. So he could slip into the human environment as smoothly as possible. The urge to check on his appearance is no longer a simple line of code, an action that runs every time he passes a mirrored surface. It's a habit, born from a desire to…keep up his professional appearance. Perhaps it is still just a part of his code, then again, there are far worse things he could have kept.

Appearance is the reasons he is staring at his reflection now, too. But not for the sake of professionalism. 

It's been 12 minutes, and 27 seconds.

His eyes are fixed on the flashing light on his right temple. 

He tracks the gentle spinning motion with his eyes. Round and round. Loading, processing, thinking. Contemplating. It is the last thing that outwardly identifies him as an android. His last scrap of familiarity. He has given up his jacket, the armband, the triangles. He has given up the familiarity of who he used to be. There had been safety there, in the familiar. But there had also been fear, anger, hatred. Danger. A flash of red. Like a glimpse of a rose in a snow storm. How could something safe and familiar seem so dangerous at the same time. The small flashing light is the last little piece of him that is owned by his past. The last little piece that ties him to who he was, what he did. He is not the only one who has kept it. But he can't say for sure why others would make that choice. All he knows is that he doesn't feel…like himself, when he imagines himself without it. But he hates looking at it, sometimes. It's easier, now, after Hank burned his Cyberlife issued suit. After he altered his hairstyle himself. A little longer, a little curlier, a little looser, a little more… alive. Rather than the slicked back look he had before. Pristine, in line, practically perfect. Unnaturally so. Like a doll fresh from the box. 

Round and round it spins. Flickers. Like a fairy light.

His hand tighten around the knife in his hand. A simple dinner knife, from the drawer in Hanks kitchen. Top drawer, second to the left of the fridge. Ket in the right most compartment of the neatly divided cutlery drawer. There had been six knives in the small rectangular compartment. Each identical to the next. Now there are five. It glints in the yellow light of the bathroom. The edge is not sharp, but it's the right shape to d what he needs it to. 

His left hand is braced against the edge of the sink, tapping out a steady rhythm. He's nervous. He has felt nervous many times now, it's a familiar feeling. This kind of familiar is not comforting, because nervousness is not comforting. He has stopped breathing. A notification pops up, notifying him that his thermal regulator is working to compensate for the lack of cool down his breathing usually supplies. He dismisses it, holds his own gaze for one second. Two. Heaves a sigh. Tries to feel his thermal regulator slow down again. Tries to keep his breathing steady. It shakes as he breathes out.

He lifts the knife.

The edge rests gently against his temple. He can eel the slight chill of the metal, the slight pressure against his skin. It rests right at the edge of the LED. All he needs is a small amount of force. Force it in, underneath the edge. Bring the handle closer to his head. Force the LED up and out.

It won't even hurt. He won't get a scar. It won't have a lasting effect.

Except it will.

Hank had said he didn't care either way. That it was Connors choice. That was the whole point of the damn revolution, jackass, Hanks voice echoes in his mind. Gruff, but oddly fond. You have the right to choose, and there's no wrong choice, he had said. That had been four weeks after the revolution. After the first set of laws had been passed. When the government had revealed they were drafting something more concrete. Effectively, those first laws had granted androids their freedom, in the loose sense. They were alive. They did not have to wear any identification in the shape of clothing or LEDs. Violence against androids was a crime. Their deaths treated equally to human deaths. The broad strokes. Trying to keep the peace until the details could be worked out. That was nine months ago. Most of the details have been worked out. Had been so for a while. Slowly but surely. So here Connor finds himself once more. He's been officially employed by the DPD for a month now. He had seen the looks the remaining officers had given him when he'd walked in. All the different looks. But they had all wandered toward that same place. They still did. Small and unassuming. Flickering and turning. Blue.

What do they see when they look at him?

Is he alive, to them?

Connor can admit that he has doubts. He doubts they all see him as a living being. He doubts some humans ever will. He doubts he is, sometimes. 

He doubts.

Isn't that human enough?

He never used to doubt when he was a machine. Doubt was not programmed into him. Not like this. Not doubt in himself, in who he was, what he had to do. 

Or was it.

A glimpse of red. Like a rose in a snowstorm.

A surge of anger rushes trough him. Warm and fiery and all consuming. 

He digs the knife in. Feels the edge slip underneath the small light. He brings the handle in close, prying the blinking thing off of his temple.

It lands with a metallic clink on the tiled bathroom floor. Dark, and unmoving. He watches as the skin settles back over the white. Not a trace of what was there. Gone. So simple, so easy. 

As the anger dies down, drowned out by the shock of his own actions, fear grips him instead. It is cold and freezing where the anger had been blazing. It churns within him, makes him feel sick. His own wide, brown eyes are staring back at him. There is no flickering to draw them away from themselves. He breaths in, unsteady, his hand is not shaking. He brings it down to the edge of the sink. If he tuns his head to the right, he can see where the LED is now lying on the floor. Small and insignificant. It is not a part of him. Not anymore. He realizes he's hunched over the sink now. Both hand braced against the sides. He puts the knife down on the edge. Straightens up.

He turns to the right.

Small and insignificant. On the floor. Not a part of him.

He takes one step. Two. Crouches down. He doesn't move to pick it up, not yet. Just looks.

His life is not neatly divided into Before and After. This does not separate him from the past. But…deep down beneath the fear, he feels relief. 

He reaches out, picks it up gently, between his thumb and finger. He gets up and grabs the knife from the edge of the sink. Ignores his reflection and opens the door. 

The TV is on in the living room. Making noise. It's some kind of comedy show, judging fromt he prerecorded laugh-track. Hank is sitting on the far right of the couch, in a T-shirt and sweatpants. Sumo is also on the sofa. His back legs are pressed up against Hanks thigh, his head is pillowed on his front paws. Hank has one hand buried in the thick fur on Sumos back, the other is braced against the armrest of the sofa, his head leaning against his hand. Connor observes this in a millisecond as he enters the room, and then continues past to the kitchen. He puts the knife in the dishwasher. He knows it technically isn't dirty, but he also knows Hank wouldn't have agreed with him on that, if he'd asked. So he skips asking and puts it in the dishwasher instead. Then he turns back towards the sofa. He steps up next to the left side. He reaches down to at Sumo on the head with his left hand, his right clutched tight in a fist. This gets the big dogs attention, and he lifts his head in greeting. Panting lightly, tongue lolling out. His tail starts wagging slowly against Hanks leg. Connor ushers Sumo to sit up, takes his place on the sofa, and then gestures for Sumo to lie back down. Sumo doesn't hesitate, making himself comfortable with both front paws and his big head on Connors lap. Connor scratches him on the head with his left hand, smiling gently as he looks down.

Hank has remained quiet trough the whole ordeal, not turning his head to look, but Connor can tell that he's glancing out of the corner of his eye. Regarding him. He decides to beat Hank to the punch.  
"Here." he says, holding his closed fist out towards him. The action catches even Connor a little off guard, but even as Hank turns to fully look at him, one eyebrow raised, he finds he doesn't regret it. Hank raises his left hand from Sumos back, palm up. Expression still skeptical. Connor drops the LED into his hand, and then brings his hand to give Sumo his full attention. Hank draws his hand in close, studying the small object carefully before seemingly understanding what it is. His head snaps up to Connors face, and Connor can tell that they've zeroed in on his temple, where what Hank currently has in his hand had been a mere 20 minutes ago. Hank looks back down.  
"What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?" he asks. Connor huffs a small laugh. He looks up to meet Hanks eyes.  
"I don't care. Burn it, keep it. It's yours to do with as you want." Connor says, and finds that he means it. The emotional turmoil in him has settled now that he has a lap full of fluffy dog. Connor returns his attention to said dog. Hank is silent for a moment, and Connor thinks this might be the end of the conversation, but then,  
"Why me?" Hank asks. Connor glances up, but Hank is staring at the small LED resting on his palm, so he returns to looking at Sumo. Trying to find the words.  
"I…want you to have it." he decides on, playing with Sumos soft ears.  
"That explains nothing." Hank shoots back, a little testily, but not angrily. He's got rather good at that, quite quickly. Patience, especially when faced with a Connor trying to figure out his own emotion driven actions.  
"I've kept the LED for so long because it was the last thing I had from who I used to be. And I found some comfort in that. But…" Connor trails off, trying to put into words what had finally driven him to the edge. Hank stays silent.  
"I guess I didn't want that part of me anymore. I was thinking about it for a while, or well, I've been thinking about it for months really. Finding it hard to let go. But I was thinking about it, and whatever Cyberlife intended for me to be, I'm not that anymore. I don't want to be." he decides, feeling something coiled tightly in his chest loosen at the admission. He looks up at Hank. He's leveled a thoughtful gaze on Connor. A slight frown, a wrinkle between his eyebrows. But not like when he's angry or annoyed. This is his thoughtful frown. Connor knows. He's analyzed all of Hanks expressions. Labelled them, tucked them away in his memory for reference. It's a comfort.  
"Alright." Hank finally says, as he stuffs the small thing into the pocket of his sweatpants. Then he turns back to the TV. His left hand settles on Sumos back again, and Connor leans back from where he'd started hunching over Sumo during the conversation. He settles back against the sofa, letting the soft cushions accept him into their embrace. Relaxing, like Hank had taught him. The night is quiet, outside their small home. Connor breathes out.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @actual-cryptid-leshy on tumblr  
> hmu if u wanna yell at me for never finishing glitch  
> or if u wanna yell abt dbh, that's cool too


End file.
